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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28445613">Hit Me With Your Best Shot</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter'>ReaperWriter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe- Fake Engagement, Graduate Student Nile Freeman, M/M, Modern AU-No Immortality, No Beta- We Die Like Idiot Immortals, Non-Profit Worker Nicky |Nicolo di Genove, Professor Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, There Was Only One Gym Membership</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:53:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,066</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28445613</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Joe finds out his roommate (and secret love of his life) Nicky is paying way too much for his shitty gym membership, he proposes they fake an engagement so he can add him as his partner to his University Faculty rec pass and their way nicer facilities. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>232</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hit Me With Your Best Shot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr about a rockwall gym with a policy that was like "no roommates on household memberships, marrieds only" and, well, here we are...</p><p>Title from the song of the same name by Pat Benatar.</p><p>Thanks to my Discord friends for cheerleading. You know who you are.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It starts because living in a major urban center is, quite frankly, hella expensive. If Joe’s being honest with himself, that’s the genesis of the issue from the jump. Not just their current situation. Everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The current situation started because Joe found out that Nicky-beautiful, wonderful, too kind for this world Nicky-was paying almost $70 a month for his gym membership, for a rathole of a place where the other patrons were assholes, the available hours weren’t great, and the trainers were lackluster, but it was at least on a bus route near their place, Joe! $70 fucking dollars a month! Unacceptable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the bigger situation, the stupider situation, began when Joe had accepted a one-year post doc right after getting his Ph.D. and moved to Seattle. The opportunity was good, a chance to build both his publication credits and teaching experience, especially in a lackluster academic job market. A year to breathe, and there was maybe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> the possibility a tenure track berth might be open here next year. No guarantees, but it gave Joe breathing room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, Seattle also had some of the most ridiculous rents in the country thanks to Jeff Bezos and the Amazon Behemoth, among other tech companies. Studios were going for four figures a month. And if Joe was moving in a year, on to another place for a hopefully permanent tenure-track posting, he’d have those costs to cover as well (he’d heard schools paid them, but he wouldn’t believe it until he saw it). So his choices were either bite the bullet and find a tiny postage stamp of a place, or move out to one of the commuter suburbs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither had appealed. Fortunately, one of the students on his hiring committee, a lovely first year doctoral student named Nile had friended him on Facebook, and mentioned that she had a friend who worked for a non-profit in the city looking for a roommate to split expenses with. “Polite, quiet until you get to know him, brilliant,” Nile told him over the phone. “His last roommate left to take a posting with Doctors without Borders, it was amicable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which was how Joe had ended up moving in with Nicolo “call me Nicky” di Genova. It had taken Joe an hour to find himself infatuated with Nicky’s physical form. Just a hair shorter than him and a little younger, Nicky’s eyes reminded Joe of the sea in an old masterpiece and his nose was something from a Roman bust. His broad shoulders reminded Joe of St. Sebastian in Renaissance paintings. It was like living with a walking, breathing museum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting a read on Nicky as a person took longer. He was, as Nile had promised, unfailingly polite, if a little aloof. He’d helped Joe and Nile with Joe’s limited furniture and boxes, declined Joe’s offer of take out, and disappeared for the rest of the afternoon once he’d given him a quick tour of the rest of the apartment. In the coming days, they passed like ships at sea, Nicky up and gone before Joe rose for the day, and seemingly in bed for the night often before Joe got home at the end of his own day. On weekends, he’d nod hello to Joe if he saw him, but he seemed to be coming or going all the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he hates me,” he confided quietly to Nile one day over coffee. She wasn’t in the classes he was teaching this quarter, so having a social relationship as friends felt fine. “I feel like he might be avoiding me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise he’s not.” Nile reached over, patting his hand. “Nicky...you caught that he’s Italian, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe nodded. The name gave his heritage, and the accent sealed the deal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, he originally planned to be a priest. Because he thought that was the only option for someone like him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like him?” Joe asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone gay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>OH.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I didn’t know.” Nile knew Joe was. He’d included his leadership work with queer student organizations as part of his service profile on his application for his position here, and some of his scholarly work dealt with the intersections between queer identity and art history in non-Western spaces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He decided he still needed to tell his parents, before he committed to seminary. He was sixteen,” Nile said, her knuckles going white on her mug. “They threw him out. Disowned him with nothing. He had an aunt on his mother’s side here in the states. He called her, and she bought him a plane ticket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s stomach roiled. It wasn’t the first such story he’d heard. But they never got any easier. His own family had been so accepting when he’d come out to them, knowing not everyone got the same treatment broke his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway,” Nile continued, “it changed his life. He ended up going to college for social work and getting his masters. Now he works with a community center here that helps queer kids. And he volunteers his off time with other groups. So I promise, he’s not avoiding you, Joe. Your schedules haven’t lined up. But he’s just being Nicky. Give it time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe took a sip of his now cold chai. “Thanks, Nile. I appreciate the insight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime.” Nile smiled. “And Joe? Nicky loves the cannoli from Princi. The one in Sodo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That afternoon, rather than staying on campus, Joe packed up his research materials, his laptop, and his papers he needed to grade, and took the Light Rail. First down to Sodo. Then, with a pastry box held carefully in his hands, back up to the International District and the streetcar home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile on Nicky’s face when Joe handed him the box from Princi? Had been worth the extra time in commute hell. Especially when it earned him an invite to share a meal of pesto alla genovese gnocchi with him after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The friendship with Nicky blossomed from there as their schedules started aligning better. It turned into dinners a couple times a week. The occasional Friday night movie, or evening out with Nile and Nicky’s other friends at a bar on Capital Hill, all of whom welcome Joe with open arms. And occasionally, on Saturdays, Joe would tag along with Nicky and help out with an arts outreach at either the non-profit he worked at or another he was volunteering with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When a tenure track job slot did open and was offered, Joe took it, happy with his friends group. And if he didn’t even consider moving out of his place with Nicky, even if he was making more money now, well, he had other reasons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now, two more years on, having learned that Nicky was paying obscene amounts of money for inferior gym facilities, and having fallen more than a little in love with his roommate, Joe could at least save his moon, his love, his life, from frittering away money out of his non-profit employee salary on such a thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is how, over dinner, he looked at Nicky and casually said, “Let’s pretend to be engaged.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky dropped his fork. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We live together. I’ve been reading Campus recreation’s website. I can add you on to my faculty recreation membership for $20 a quarter if we’re engaged or married.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joe…” Nicky sighed. “My gym is fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your gym is a shithole on top of a pustule. You hate your gym.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t hate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mutter Italian swear words every time you come home from there. You use half a bottle of color safe bleach on your clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They are dirty. Because I worked out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The one trainer won’t stop grabbing your ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe she’s adjusting my form?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe she doesn’t know what, ‘That is very kind, Sydney, but I am gay,’ means.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky sighed. “We’d be lying Joe. We aren’t a couple.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We could be</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Joe bit his tongue hard enough to taste iron. Then he said, “Look, we’ve been roommates for over three years. Some marriages don’t last that long. We split expenses. In many ways, we’re meeting all the definitions of a cohabiting couple. If we aren’t getting the tax benefits, we should at least get this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky rubbed his hands slowly down his face, then picked up his fork. “Is this really bothering you so much, Joe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes!” Joe sat forward. “You work hard, Nicky, and I know you can’t be making what you deserve, and the cost of that gym is stupid. Let me do this for you. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky sighed, twirling some pasta onto his fork. “Will you start coming to work out with me in the mornings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By mornings, Joe knew, Nicky meant the ass crack of dawn. Joe’s beloved sleep time. But while he might love sleep, he loved Nicky more. If that’s what it took to save the man from himself. So be it. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky’s eyebrow twitched up just the slightest bit, and then the corner of his mouth curled up to follow it. “Okay then. I will cancel the old membership.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Joe grinned at Nicky. “You won’t be sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe was sorry. Joe was very, very sorry. This was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It started off brutally when Nicky rolled him out of bed at 5AM to get changed into work out clothes and pack a change so he could shower after their workout and just stay on campus. Then he’d handed him some horrible green colored smoothie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, when they’d ridden the Light Rail up to campus and cut over to the recreation center, Nicky had curved his arm around Joe’s waist while showing Lucille the membership director his driver’s license to confirm they lived together, telling her they anticipated a long engagement due to family needs, but they were thinking of honeymooning in Malta.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where the fuck had that even come from? Was Malta some secret dream of Nicky’s?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe had assumed he’d at least be safe with Nicky’s choice of apparel for the day, a loose hoodie and a pair of track pants. Then in the locker room, Nicky had stripped those off, exposing a pair of tiny men’s running shorts and a compression tank top that left almost nothing to the imagination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Treadmills, Joe? Or Ellipticals?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe was a fucking idiot. But Nicky’s bright smile at the new, clean equipment, mostly empty at this ungodly hour of the morning, made it worth it as they pounded out a run.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was such a good idea, Joe,” Nicky said in the lobby after they’d showered and changed for the day. “I’m glad you suggested it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too,” Joe replied faintly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Nicky leaned in. “Have a good day, tesoro,” he said, pressing a kiss to Joe’s cheek. “See you at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Joe could respond, Nicky was gone, off to catch the Light Rail back south toward the center. Turning, he caught Lucille smiling at him. She waved. He managed to wave back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Terrible. Horrible. No good…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So incredibly fucked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every morning, five days a week, Nicky woke him up. Joe had started pre-packing his bag, but he was still half asleep for most of the ride to campus, leaning into Nicky’s shoulder on the Light Rail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the workouts felt good. Joe had never been opposed before, but he didn’t tend to vary his routine (run, some squats, dumbbells) much. Nicky found new pieces of equipment fascinating, and the opportunity for classes more so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is how he found himself just behind Nicky and Nile in a Zumba class, trying not to trip over his own feet. Nicky in those runner’s shorts, moving like that. Well, if this was how he died, so be it. It was fun, even with the distraction. And Allah help him, what a distraction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After class and showers, Nicky pecked him on the cheek, leaving him and Nile to wander off in search of caffeine before her first class.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Zumba,” Nile said as they walked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nicky suggested it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had fun. Did you have fun?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do Zumba every week, Joe,” Nile laughed. “I just make sure I’m in the front row so I’m not distracted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t distracted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could see your eyes in the mirror, Joe. You aren’t subtle.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe groaned. “Fuck. Does Nicky know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He hasn’t said anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kept walking until they got to the first non-chain coffee shop they could find. Then Nile added, “Why don’t you want him to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe froze. “Because he’s become one of my best friends here. And I don’t want to make that awkward, or ruin a good roommate situation because I fucked around and caught feelings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, for a smart guy,” Nile said, holding the door open, “you are incredibly stupid sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not my thing to tell. You’ll figure it out.” Following him in, Nile looked at the menu. “Maybe I’ll suggest to Nicky we all try hot yoga next.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>****</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe got food poisoning from some unfortunately chosen lunch a few weeks later, knocking him out of the gym rotation for a day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can stay home, Joe,” Nicky kindly offered after bathing his head with a washcloth and helping him back to bed. “If you need me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, the worst of it is past. I just feel like slow cooked death on lavash. I’ll be fine. Go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky frowned, but nodded. “If you’re sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe shot him a thumbs up, curling around the unopened bottle of Gatorade Zero Nicky grabbed him from the kitchen and passing back out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hours later, he woke up groggy with that post-sick hangover that wanted nothing so much as a shower, something to drink, the blandest meal in the world, and someone to pet his hair. He was one for four as he cracked open the Gatorade and picked up his phone. Flicking through his Instagram, he smiled at pictures of his sister with his brother in law and their two kids, and of his college roommate on a research trip in South America. And then he saw Nile’s post.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Best Sparring Partner Today in Muay Thai Class! Thanks @NickydiG”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the picture, Nile and Nicky stood with their arms around each other, hands wrapped for fight sparring, heads in regulating headgear. But that wasn’t what stopped Joe’s scroll. Nicky wore a comfortable loose old pair of basketball shorts and a ratty t-shirt from the center. No compression shirt. No tiny running shorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was it because Muay Thai would require a cup for men, something Joe was fairly certain wouldn’t fit in the shorts Nicky’d been wearing? But then Joe thought back to watching Joe wash his gym clothes before, at his old gym. His shorts had never looked that small. And he’d always been laundering t-shirts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What? The? Fuck?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe pulled himself out of bed and into the shower. He and Nicky needed to have a talk when he got home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few hours later, the front door opened as Joe sat on the couch, grading with the TV on softly in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Joe? Are you feeling better? I got that lentil soup you like from the place over near the used book store.” Nicky walked in, and his smile was so warm, Joe wanted to crawl inside it forever. Which made ruining it that much worse. “Joe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nicky, what have you been wearing to the gym?” he asked quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky set the soup down on the end table. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The short shorts and the compression shirts. Why have you been wearing those to the gym?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because they’re gym clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>gym clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bought them,” Nicky shot back. “Eddie Izzard would say that makes them mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not what I…” Joe threw his hands up in exasperation. “They aren’t what you normally wear. You used to wear basketball shorts and old t-shirts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I wanted something better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so the first day I’m not there with you, you go back to your old style?” Joe picked up his phone, swiping it on and holding up the picture of him and Nile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky went quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s heart sank. “Look, Nicky, I was trying to do something nice for you, okay. It’s not cool to...to fuck with me about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck with you?” Nicky blinked back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you think you're doing with the short shorts and the tight shirts, whatever game that is, just don’t, okay.” Joe stood up. “I’m going back to bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cazzo! A game? Seriously, Joe?” Nicky stepped in front of him, his eyes rolling through colors like an angry sea. “Do you know how it feels to have the man who holds your heart in his hands offer to be your </span>
  <em>
    <span>fake </span>
  </em>
  <span>fiancé because he thinks you are too stupid to find a better gym? To know he’ll never look at you and see someone he wants?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Joe’s jaw dropped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted you to want me, Joe. To love me. To see someone you could actually want to marry.” The tears in Nicky’s eyes tore right into Joe’s soul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, Nile was right. Joe was incredibly stupid sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nicolo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tesoro. Amore mio.” Nicky froze, staring at Joe with eyes wide as silver dollars. “Habibi. Ya amar. Hayati. You are all and more to me. I thought I would never be such for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky blinked. “You’re an idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nile has reliably told me so, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You love me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For a while now, my Nicolo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky stepped forward, his hands coming up and cupping Joe’s face. He searched Joe’s eyes for a long moment, and Joe held his breath. Then full, warm lips, a little chapped from Seattle’s salty sea air, crushed into his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe’s own arms circled Nicky’s waist, pulling him in tight. And if one of those hands slipped down onto the ass that Joe had now starred at in more than one fitness class and gently squeezed, well. Joe was only human. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky broke the kiss with a laugh. “Te amo, Yusuf. My Joe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two years later, the two of them finally got married at the University’s Botanical Garden and Arboretum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile was both their best woman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They invited Lucille from the rec center, who happily cried in the front row, and then updated their records to married the Monday after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they took that honeymoon in Malta.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tesoro- treasure (Italian)<br/>Cazzo- vulgar slang for shit or fuck when used as an interjection (Italian)<br/>amore mio- my love (Italian)<br/>habibi- my love (Arabic)<br/>ya amar- my moon (Arabic)<br/>hayati- my life (Arabic)<br/>te amo- I love you (Italian)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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